CYRANO: She's a danger mortal, All unsuspicious—full of charms unconscious, Like a sweet perfumed rose—a snare of nature, Within whose petals Cupid lurks in ambush! (not reviewed by editor)

ROXANE: I will tell you why! DE GUICHE (in despair): 'Tis a post of mortal danger! ROXANE (turning round): Mortal danger! CYRANO: Proof enough, that he has put us here! ROXANE (to De Guiche): So, Sir, you would have made a widow of me? (not reviewed by editor)

ROXANE: I will tell you why! DE GUICHE (in despair): 'Tis a post of mortal danger! ROXANE (turning round): Mortal danger! CYRANO: Proof enough, that he has put us here! ROXANE (to De Guiche): So, Sir, you would have made a widow of me? (not reviewed by editor)

Tell. . . ROXANE: If, when the regiment march to Arras, he were left here with his beloved boon companions, the Cadets, to sit with crossed arms so long as the war lasted! There is your method, would you enrage a man of his kind; cheat him of his chance of mortal danger, and you punish him right fiercely. (not reviewed by editor)